Deliberation
by ittykat
Summary: Nick Fury hands him the medical suspension with surprising delicacy. But that doesn't mean Clint actually gets time off. He learns there is more than one way of being benched.


Fury hands him the medical suspension with surprising delicacy.

If by surprising you mean that Clint has seen it coming ever since he'd awkwardly forced down some shawarma with a motley bunch of security threats and finally had a few moments to himself to process what the fuck had just happened to him.

And if by delicacy you mean absolutely none at all.

But he takes it in his stride. Life has been throwing these shitty lemons at him his entire life. It was about time this career soured in his hands. He's dealt with this before, and he'll probably come out the other end alright. He has skills, some of which are transferrable, some are not. But he'll walk that road when he comes to it. For now he'll be a good boy and play the waiting game.

He doesn't cause a scene in Fury's office, or in the hallway once he's out. He doesn't throw a tantrum once he gets back to his quarters to collect his things. The less fuss he makes, the better off he'll be in the long run. No need to burn bridges. He's a patient man, he's used to waiting.

Maybe it's telling that most of his belongings fit into a duffel bag, or at least the ones that are essential. He has a stack of DVDs on a shelf that he leaves (he can buy another copy of the Hitchcock collection) and the dirty clothes in the hamper in the corner aren't worth packing. He leaves all his toiletries, and the assorted knick-knacks that rest along the raised metal bar that's fitted into the wall beside his bunk. They were cheap little porcelain souvenirs he'd collected at airports over the years. There is a little Eiffel tower, a little model of a golden Japanese temple, a fake Fabergé egg, a small set of babushka dolls, all of which had toppled over in the chaos of his attack on the helicarrier. He rights the dolls before leaves, and shuts the door behind him.

His resolve waves a little as he passes the elevator for the armory, as he thinks of his bow, but he knows they wouldn't release a weapon to an agent on a medical suspension, and it all comes back to not making a fuss.

He waves goodbye to one of the junior agents who passes him in the hallway, and makes his way back to the quinjet transport that will get him back on solid land.

He keeps an apartment, but it's been at least three months since he last spent any time here. The New Mexico mission kept him on base almost 24/7, and it wasn't worth the commute back to NY every time he was given two days rec leave. Before that he'd been bounced from mission to mission and it was easier to catch a break on the helicarrier than it was to come home.

The large oak trees out the front of his apartment have turned a burnished gold, and there is a healthy layer of dusty red leaves littering the walk up to the stairs. Clint fumbles with the keys a little before he finally picks out the silver one that will let him into the darkened foyer. It takes him a few seconds to remember where the timed light switch is, on the wall just to the left of the doorway, which he presses and the fluro light flickers to life with an audible buzz.

The ugly paint job is the same, a mildly offensive orange with a cream trim. Locked post boxes for each of the apartments line one side and the body corp's bulletin board hangs on the opposite wall. He retrieves his mail as quickly as he can, knowing the timed light will run out prematurely, and tackles the stairs with a fist full of junk mail in one hand and the overnight bag of his worthwhile possessions in the other.

Clint's apartment is on the top floor, in the far corner of the complex. The estate agent who'd rented it to him originally had bragged that it was the cheapest apartment in the building, but that wasn't why he'd signed the contract. It was the only one that didn't have a wall that faced the street front, and instead had a rather sombre view of the apartment building behind. Not much of a selling point. But he'd sacrifice a nice view of the park across the street for security any day to satiate his paranoia.

His paranoia has kept him alive this long, even if it doesn't much help him sleep at night.

The apartment itself is dark and musty, sparsely furnished for practicality, rather than livability. But he has the essentials: fridge, shower, bed. There is a TV set up in the living room, and a couch. The kitchen cupboard has a decent array of canned food, long-life milk and other non-perishable foodstuffs, most of which had been bought in bulk and which he has slowly been picking away at during his very rare stops home. But since it's likely he'll be here for a while, maybe he'll splurge and get some fresh vegetables to supplement his meals.

He tosses the fistful of mail onto the kitchen bench to sort through later, and makes a beeline to the master bedroom, dumping his bag in the corner. The bed is still tussled and unmade, from the last time he stayed the night, and he knows that he should strip the sheets and put fresh ones down. But now he is here, and he is finally alone, and somewhat at home, he simply doesn't give a shit. It's a problem for tomorrow.

He kicks off his boots and pants and flops ungracefully into the centre of the bed, feeling like a marionette that has had its strings severed. In a monumental expense of effort he grasps the nearest pillow and shoves it beneath his ear, taking a deep, slow breath in through the nose, and out through the mouth.

And he sleeps.

It comes it fits and spurts, occasionally interrupted by disturbing flashes of dreams that are nothing more than feelings of unease and discomfort. They're mild in the scheme of things and fall far short of the recurring nightmares and spasms of terror that have characterised his sleep before, but it's disruptive enough that he tosses and turns most of the night, getting only a modicum of rest, and when he wakes up his legs are tangled and twisted in his musty sheets. For a few moments he lies there with his eyes closed and thinks to himself that if he just lies here long enough, maybe sleep will return and he won't have to function for just a little while longer, but there is a pressure in his bladder that needs to be seen to and his belly is rumbling for something more substantial than greasy shawarma.

He finally works up the energy to kick the sheets off and roll himself out of bed, pulling off his stinky rancid shirt as he stands. He flings it over his shoulder, knowing it'll land in the laundry basket, and it is only then, when he is standing in nothing else but boxers he's been wearing for three days, that he realises someone else is in his apartment.

There isn't any distinctive noise, no tell-tale shuffling or movement on the other side of his bedroom door. He can't quite put his finger on exactly why he knows he's not alone here anymore- maybe he can detect a subtle change in the ambient temperature- who the fuck knows. Clint is paid to be paranoid, and he just knows.

To worry about why he has only just noticed the invasion of his space would be a waste of time. He must've been more exhausted and wiped out than even he'd imagined. Fuck, he doesn't even know what time it is, let alone how long he'd been asleep for. All he can afford to allow is a plan to form- choices are made, will he fight? Will he disable? Will he kill? Or will he run?

No switch needs to be clicked in his mind for him to be back in the zone, no change in attitude needs to be made. He is glad he still has his socks on, they make moving silently through his bedroom that much easier. He fetches his gun from his dresser draw, knowing by the weight alone that it has a full clip, and he thumbs the safety off, pointing it through the closed door. He pauses with his right hand on the doorknob for a fraction of a second, hyper alert for any noise or vibration through the walls that would indicate to him what part of the apartment the intruder is in, but whoever it is, their stealth skills are far too good. No matter. His quick observation and reflexes should be enough.

He twists the knob and darts into the living room, immediately taking shelter behind his old black sofa, scanning the room in a fraction of a second as he moved. "The FUCK, Natasha?" He yells from the floor, immediately clicking the safety back on, and finally allowing his heartbeat to bubble up in panic in his chest.

"Is that any way to thank me for bringing you breakfast?" The assassin calls lightly from the kitchen, and now there is no longer a door between him he can put his finger on what it was that clued him into her presence here. The faint smell of warm, buttery croissants and freshly brewed coffee. The woman herself is wielding a sharp knife, deftly slicing fresh strawberries to add to what seems to be the beginnings of a fruit salad.

"I could've killed you." He says, pulling himself using the back of his sofa.

"I knew you'd figure it out in time." She says, depositing the diced red fruit into the bowl next to her. "Breakfast will be ready in about ten minutes. Go have a shower."

"You couldn't call ahead?" He sputters, glaring. It's like fighting aliens has just made her throw out their entire book.

Natasha wipes a slightly juicy hand on a dish towel and whips her cell phone out of a pocket somewhere on her person. She deftly keys in a few numbers and switches it to speaker-phone, so he can hear the outgoing call himself.

The call rings four or five times, and then connects to his own message bank recording, and there is no corresponding tinny trill of his own phone coming anywhere from within the apartment. It is then that Natasha raises a pointed eyebrow at him, and says: "I suspect you may have misplaced your cell phone, and since you never bothered to get a landline connected here…" She trails off, and it occurs to him the last time he had his phone was back in his locker in New Mexico, a base that no longer has a post code… among other things.

"Oh." He says, feeling utterly deflated. All the resentment and anger that had been pooling in his belly just a moment ago has been sucked away and replaced by the unease and discomfort that had plagued his sleep.

"Go shower." Natasha repeats, more quietly this time, then returns to slicing her fruit.

He emerges about fifteen minutes later with a towel wrapped around his hips, and he feels a little better. If nothing else, he feels a little more alert and awake, and when he sits down at his stool, Natasha places a steaming mug of fresh coffee under his nose, along with a serving of the fruit salad.

After a few mouthfuls coffee (made precisely the way he prefers it) and about half the bowl of fruit, he musters up the courage to say: "Sorry about before," but Natasha is already shrugging it off before he has a chance to finish.

"Don't worry about it." She says, and it is said in such a tone that he drops the topic straight away, and instead shovels a cube of melon into his mouth, swallowing the rest of his apology down with it.

Clint keeps eating and takes the time to surreptitiously check up on his partner while she tidies up his kitchen. She hadn't spent as much time in medical after the battle as he had- getting that much glass removed from your skin takes a bit longer than a cortisone injection to the ankle- but she still has a rather impressive bruise peeking out from her blouse. And of course she is favouring that ankle, ever so slightly. He would wager his back-up bow and a full quiver of modified tipped arrows that the doctor had given her strict instructions to keep off that foot and keep it elevated and yet here she is, placing a freshly baked croissant under his nose.

"Sit down, Nat." He says, toeing the stool beside him out from beneath the lip of the bench.

She pushes her own bowl and coffee mug across the counter and takes the offered seat without protest.

"Paranoia: scale of one to ten." She says to him,

"Seven," he replies immediately, to which she raises an eyebrow. "Hey, I slept last night and didn't shoot you through the door when I knew someone was in here."

She shrugs her head to the side, conceding the validity of his point, then takes a sip of her coffee, clasping the mug securely in both hands. "Pain?"

"Two. Itchiness'll be a factor in a few days though." He gestures to the healing scabs that are visible across his arms and back. Natasha uncoils a hand from around the mug to gently press at some of the undamaged skin around the wounds, clinically inspecting the repair work the doctors had performed. Clint lets her conduct her examination, only flinching when her fingers accidentally press a little too hard on one of his deeper bruises.

"Sorry," she murmurs, trailing her fingers lightly away from the problem area. "I'll bring you some salve."

"I think I still have some leftover from Venice."

"If you don't, I definitely do. Let me know, I'll bring it round tomorrow." Natasha says, and tucks into her fruit salad.

They sit in companionable silence long enough for Clint to polish off two of the croissants and half of his cup of coffee. With anyone else Clint would feel obliged to fill the silence with conversation, no matter how awkward it might be, or how unenthusiastic he might feel. But Nat seems happy to finish off her own breakfast and leave him in peace for now.

It isn't until she's finished the last of her own strawberries that she asks her next question, but it is the one he's been anticipating since the day before, and half the reason he fled the helicarrier so quickly. "How long are you benched for?" She asks, collecting the bowls and plates, but leaving him to nurse his coffee a little longer.

"Pending psych evals." Clint shrugs.

"Would you pass if you took one today?"

"Not without faking it."

Natasha nods slowly and places the used crockery in the sink. He watches as she calmly plugs the sink and turns on the faucet, using her fingers to test the water as it heats, adjusting it to an acceptable temperature. It is soothing to watch her perform such a menial task, and he knows that he should offer to help. But he also knows that if he were to offer she would not let him. She takes some sort of weird morbid pleasure in these quiet domestic tasks. They are simple and mindless and easily accomplished. He has never been suspended for any reason since she began working for SHIELD. He is not the only one who needs to adjust.

"I'm gonna find some clothes," Clint says, and finishes off his coffee in one large gulp.

When he returns, now wearing clean jeans and a simple grey shirt, the dishes are done and Natasha is wiping down the bench, holding a bundle of envelopes in the hand not methodically dragging a sponge across the countertop. It's the mail he collected from his box the night before, saved from a spongy moist future, by a woman determined to wipe away more than just croissant crumbs.

"Here," She says, holding the letters out. He takes them, and begins immediately flicking through them while he waits for Natasha to collect herself. She's the one who's been in this position before, and though they haven't spoken about it explicitly, they both know he's going to take his lead from her. And if she needs time to process? Well, he is a patient man.

He can tell what most of the letters are by the watermarks or the return addresses. Bank statements, mostly, an electricity bill that he'd paid online a month ago, but there is one envelope that is curiously blank and void of anything that immediately identifies it. He slips a nail underneath the edge and rips the seal apart.

"I think," Natasha says finally, returning the sponge to the sink. "I think that we need to get you back into a routine."

"Level out?" He asks.

"Level out." She says with a nod. "It's not a bad thing, taking time off to adjust. You need to find your normal again."

He chuckles, unable to really help himself. "Not sure I've ever had that," He says, wryly.

"We'll get you a hobby." Natasha says, smirking.

He returns his gaze to the letter in his hands, reading the first few lines, and skimming the rest.

"Looks like I'll have something else to occupy my time," He says finally, handing Natasha the letter.

_To Clinton Barton,_

_JURY SUMMONS_

_You have been randomly selected to serve as a juror in the US District Court: Southern District of New York._


End file.
